


Lost in Thought

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boredom fic, F/M, Fluff, nothing but fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4499073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joffrey is just itching to hear what's in Sansa's diary.</p><p>"He felt like the lowest cur in existence, delving into her thoughts like that."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost in Thought

**Author's Note:**

> I am SO BORED. My attempt at entertaining myself.

They’d been waiting in silence for mere minutes when Trant finally rushed in, shutting the door quickly behind him.

“Did you get it?” the king asked. Trant held up the book he’d stolen with one hand, a triumphant sneer on his stupid face. “Well, what are you waiting for? Read it to us.”

Trant’s face fell. “Oh, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” Sandor had to fight a laugh- he knew full well the knight could barely read, though the man did his best to hide that deficiency.

Joffrey snatched the book from Trant’s hand and opened it with a flourish before starting to read. “ _’I never thought I’d see a day when Arya would want to learn how to be a true lady, but she starts her dance lessons today and I couldn’t be happier. Maybe now she’ll be less embarrassing in court. Septa Mordane says that a lady should never…’_ oh gods, this is boring!”  Joffrey snapped the book shut with a huff and a roll of his eyes. “Is this what women think about? It’s rubbish!”

Sandor snorted but otherwise stayed quiet; Ser Meryn, though, felt the need to actually answer. “Yes, Your Grace, you’ll probably have to read through a lot of drivel before you see anything of interest.”

Joffrey eyed the knight for a few moments before seeming to agree, holding the book out towards his faithful Hound. “Here, dog, give it a read. Let us know when you see something good, will you?” The task now handed off, the boy sauntered away to pour himself some wine.

Sandor Clegane was not a good man- he knew it, and so did every single person who had ever crossed his path. He’d done some truly horrifying things in his life, seen even worse, things that had blackened his heart as sure as his soul. And yet, for some reason, reading the private thoughts of a young girl felt like crossing a line he was unwilling to cross.

Not that he’d never wondered what was in that pretty little head of hers- he wondered that quite often, every time she chirped out one practiced courtesy or another, any time he saw that completely vacant look in her eyes. He wondered. But now he didn’t have to wonder, he had her thoughts right here in his hands. All he had to do was summon the courage to dive in, to travel deep inside to the inner musings of her mind. He wasn’t entirely certain he was ready for it.    

With a resigned sigh, he flipped open the book and thumbed through the pages till he found the passage Joffrey was just reading, scanning it quickly to see if there was anything of import. There wasn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed to not find any personal details, but didn’t have to think about it long, for as soon as he turned the page he found his first reward.

“ _’My heart is breaking_ ,’” he read aloud, feeling like the lowest cur in existence. “ _’I can’t imagine going through something so horrible, emerging strong and brave but also bitter and broken. I’m not afraid of him, though. Or maybe I still am. I just don’t know anymore.’_ ”

“That’s… utter nonsense,” the boy muttered, face twisted into a sneer. “When did she write that?”

Sandor scanned the page to glean the answer, and as he did something stirred in his stomach. “Some time during the Hand’s Tourney,” he rasped with forced indifference.

Joffrey grimaced as if deep in thought. “What is she talking about? I don’t remember anything at all that would arouse her pity.”

But Sandor wasn’t listening. He’d flipped to the next page and was surprised to find a very detailed description of the day he’d won the tourney in spectacular fashion. He read with growing interest her description of the men entered in the lists, how he’d almost been unhorsed by the Kingslayer, how Ser Loras had looked beautiful during his tilt against Gregor, and how the joust had ended with a furious sword fight. He really enjoyed reading about his successes in her flowery words and handwriting, smiling at the memory of it, until he reached the last sentence on the page. _‘I knew the Hound would win.’_ It was so unexpected his smile faltered.

“What?” Trant asked. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Sandor answered immediately. “It’s… her version of how the tourney ended. She must not have liked it very much.” It was a lie, and he loathed lying, but he was not about to read aloud her confidence in him. That was for him and him alone.

Joffrey snorted. “Women,” he muttered derisively. “I suppose she devotes most of the narrative to the dress she was wearing.” Sandor huffed a laugh and nodded his agreement before flipping the page.

The boy was partially right. Almost every page after that one was filled with descriptions of clothing or food or music or some other truly trivial matter. Sometimes she philosophized about life as a highborn, which was mildly amusing, and once in a while she would say something highly complimentary of her future husband. He would read those aloud, Joffrey puffing up with every word, but then he’d be back to flipping through the pages in silence until Joff got bored.

“I’ve had enough standing around,” the king complained. “Finish reading that thing, mark the interesting passages, and read them to me later. I’m going down to the yard to shoot something.” With that, the boy grabbed his crossbow and headed out the door with Ser Meryn Trant in tow.

He frowned as they retreated- they should all know better than this. The King’s Sworn Shield should be with the king at all times, even down at the training yard while he was shooting pathetically at targets. But he’d been given a direct order to stay here and read, in the cool comfort of the King’s private chambers. He wasn’t about to argue with _that_.

Flipping further into the book, he was both relieved and surprised to find the girl made no mention of her father’s arrest and imprisonment, nor did she say a word of the man’s subsequent beheading. He remembered, then, that she’d been near beside herself at the time, so it was really no wonder her written musings had fallen by the wayside. Or maybe she had made the decision to not write any of it down for fear that it might be discovered and deemed traitorous. Either way, he was glad to see nothing of the kind.

Instead he found she had skipped to the day he’d hauled her out of her bed at the King’s orders, and the full description of what happened on top of the battlement. It was no wonder that the experience had traumatized her, but he was amused by her mention of Joffrey’s _‘wormy’_ lips.

“Ha,” he agreed aloud. “They _are_ wormy.”

He read a bit more of her version of that day, how Trant had hit her and Joffrey had ordered her to smile. It was chilling to see her intimation that she wanted to push the king off the walkway to his death, just as he’d suspected, but not as chilling as her final sentence.

_’He’s not a bad man, I don’t think. He may be mean, but he’s not evil.’_

Sandor shook his head at the book. “Still defending him, little bird?” He grabbed a piece of paper off the desk to mark the page- Joffrey might like this passage.

Another day was devoted to Joffrey’s nameday tournament, and apparently even the little bird found the event rather tiresome. He remembered that day quite well, how she had come to the defense of that drunk fool Dontos and nearly lost her own head for it. She made no mention of that, though, but at the end of the page she had written _‘what a man sows on his nameday he reaps throughout the year.’_ That was it, no explanation was included, though he didn’t need one to understand it. He didn’t think that little lie was worth remembering, but apparently the bird liked it.    

The girl must have grown wiser after that, as she nearly always avoided saying anything negative about the king, and never by name, always by implication. After one particularly dull entry, she ended the day with a simple paragraph. _’I don’t know why he must always speak so cruelly. I’ve never done anything to him, but he’s always so hateful towards me.’_

Another boring passage about court proceedings, this time with a compliment on Joffrey’s swift justice. And at the end she had written _‘the Hound was right. There are no true knights.’_ He marked that page, too. He’d make sure Trant was around to hear it.

Flipping through more pages, he reached one that made him laugh out loud. Scrawled in large letters, filling up the entire paper, was one sentence: _‘He’s so mean!’_ It was underlined several times, and the words were written with such a heavy hand that it ruined many of the following pages.

He remembered vividly the day Joffrey had the girl stripped and beaten in court, remembered bringing her himself to see the king. It was not a good day, and seeing it exposed on the page brought a new sense of dread deep in his gut. She wrote of her brother’s sorcery and her own treachery, and the king’s fury at being betrayed. She wrote of the punishment she received, the pain and the shame, and the near silence of the event _‘save for one lone protest and my own sobs.’_ She also wrote cryptically of something that was _‘coarse and heavy and warm, much like its owner.’_ The memory of it all was twisting around in his mind, end over end as he tried desperately to reconcile her written account to the one he’d experienced, yet he kept falling short.

The next day was a generic description of her mundane activities- eating, walking, reading, sewing. It didn’t sound particularly interesting, but in truth she was fortunate to have so little to write about. Lately, the only things that happened concerning her had been horrible. So he was relieved when she concluded the day with little more than a mention of a bath. And at the bottom she had drawn three little wolves, running after each other, with a little notation of _‘I need to work on these!’_

“Sure do,” he agreed out loud. “Your wolves look like dogs, little bird.”

More pages filled with descriptions of flowers currently blooming in the garden and a wistful declaration of her love of winter roses. She spent an entire page talking of her northern heritage and how she missed Winterfell- who could blame her for that?- ending the day with _‘he has the look of the north to him. I wonder why.’_ The child was delusional if she thought golden-haired green-eyed Joffrey had the look of the north to him, but he’d always known she was rather delusional. Below that she had drawn the three wolves again, with a note of _‘Better!’_ Sandor disagreed- they looked no more like wolves than the previous attempt. The girl was losing her mind.

More boring pages followed after that, each one with the three wolves drawn at the bottom and always with an encouraging note from the author that she was showing great improvement. On one page, below the words but above the wolves, she’d written _‘Our names are so much alike. I never noticed before.’_ And Sandor was once again shaking his head. There was nothing even remotely similar about Sansa Stark to Joffrey Baratheon. But who else could she be speaking of? The only other man who had seemingly piqued her interest was Loras Tyrell, but… that didn’t fit, either. Was she imagining a connection where none existed? Why would she do that?

_‘Myrcella left for Dorne today.’_

Her most recent entry. It was a long one, too, understandable since it had been quite… eventful.

She set the tone for the day with a full explanation of what was happening and why, where she went, how she got there, what she wore, etc. She continued the narrative with a highly flattering description of how Joffrey tried to set a positive example for Tommen on the proper behavior for a prince. Sandor rolled his eyes and marked the page before continuing to read.

The narrative continued with their journey back into the Keep- the misery of the people and how she wished she could help them, the way the riot began with shouting and escalated quickly to shoving, how she was nearly pulled from her horse, but ultimately wasn’t. He was a little disappointed that he couldn’t be mentioned after saving her life, even after abandoning his own horse to rescue her from the fray. But then he read the last passage.

_‘I don’t understand him. He’s always so mean to me, and yet he’s the closest thing I’ve ever known to a true knight, though he’s not a knight at all. I can’t think of anyone else I’d trust, except mayhap for Robb. But Robb has done nothing for me since I’ve been here. Only one person has. Today when he saved me, I wished he would take me out of here, take me home. I’m sure he’d be happy in the north; he has the look of the north in him, after all.’_

_‘I want to make something to thank him for all he’s done. I will, too, as soon as my hounds look good enough. They’re getting better every day.’_

Below that, she’d drawn the three wolves again. _No, not wolves._

Sandor snapped the book shut, thoughts swirling in his head, pulse pounding in his ears. Joffrey could not be allowed to see this; _no one_ could be allowed to see this. It needed to be returned, and it needed to be returned right now.  

 _I’ll tell Joff I lost it._ That would be pretty stupid, even for a dog like him, but he doubted Joffrey would care enough to actually punish him for it. It was a pitiful plan, but he couldn’t think about that at the moment. He needed to return the book first, before it was missed, and then he’d come up with a good story for Joffrey.

The corridor was empty when he stopped at her door, knocking loudly and purposefully. “Lady Sansa,” he called to her. When there was no answer, he repeated the knock and the call, and was greeted again by silence. And now, certain the room was vacant, he slipped into her chamber.

It was then that he realized his folly; he had no idea where to put the damned thing. On the book shelf? No, too open. Under the pillow? No, too obvious. Under the mattress? Maybe… it was as good a place as any other he could think of. It would have to do. Quickly he moved to the bed to lift the coverlets out of the way, remembering at the last second to pull out the page markers. The book now more-or-less properly returned to its owner, he left quietly before anyone could discover he was ever there.

Seven hells, he needed wine. He needed a LOT of wine. If reports were accurate, Stannis would be attacking as early as the next evening, and while he welcomed the battle and the thrill of a good fight, his mind was overwhelmingly occupied by something else. By _someone_ else. The girl was a complete fool- for having faith in him, for trusting him, for hoping he would rescue her. Only a lack-witted child could dream of a dog like him stealing her away and taking her home. But as he made his way up to the battlement with several wineskins in hand, he knew if he ever had the chance he would do just that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind, Sansa writes her diary to accurately reflect her time in King's Landing, but always with the idea that she shouldn't write anything that may be considered treasonous. So her written words are white-washed, much like her spoken words.
> 
> Did I mention how terribly bored I am?


End file.
